


Homophobia feat. a 2-hour Math Test

by TheAsexualofSpades



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, EVERYTHING IS PLATONIC EXCEPT MAYBE LOGINCE, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Platonic Relationships, Student Anxiety | Virgil Sanders, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Teacher Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Teacher Deceit | Janus Sanders, Teacher Logic | Logan Sanders, Teacher Morality | Patton Sanders, Teacher-Student Relationship, yes i am projecting, yes it sucks, yes this happened to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:19:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28683177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: As everyone will tell you, high school sucks. Like, it really fucking sucks.It extra sucks when you have to take two tests in one day.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Logic | Logan Sanders, Anxiety | Virgil Sanders & Morality | Patton Sanders, Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Logic | Logan Sanders
Comments: 19
Kudos: 135





	Homophobia feat. a 2-hour Math Test

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the nonny that requested this! I hope it's what you wanted!

**Prompt:** Could you... maybe... do an Analogical hurt comfort? Honestly it could be anything you want it to be, like a wild card... but just... Analogical hurt/comfort cause I LIVE for that...? *smol wave of thanks if you do but no pressure if you don’t wanna*

* * *

There’s a knock on the door. Logan looks up to see Virgil outside. He waves for Jim to come in.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hi. This time still work?”

“Yes.” He takes the test paper and the formula booklet on his desk and passes them to him. “Sit anywhere you like, you have an hour and a half.”

“Thanks.” He takes the paper and sits at the seat closest to the door, squinting at the front page.

It is…unexpected, to say the least, for this particular student to have to make up an exam, but there are worse ways to spend the hour and a half after school. Plus, Virgil is an excellent student, and he has no doubt he will perform well. The room fills with the scratchings of his pencil, the typing of his calculator, and the click of Logan’s keyboard.

Well, that and the occasional…remark.

“Wait, what?”

Logan looks over to see Virgil frowning at the paper. He seems to catch his movement and looks up. He raises an eyebrow.

  
“Sorry, am I being annoying?”

“You know talking is not normally permitted under exam conditions,” he admonishes lightly.

He also raises an eyebrow. “You know you are _also_ allowed to just tell me to shut up.”

Logan taps his finger against his lips, unable to hide the smile when he claps his hand over his mouth. He shakes his head at his dramatics as he turns back to his exam.

Virgil listens to his instruction, though he’s not nearly as quiet as he normally is. Perhaps it is simply because he is used to having more than one student taking a test at once. Still, the turning pages seem…a little louder than normal. There’s the occasional sniff; perhaps it’s the season. Logan’s allergies have been acting up too as of late. When there’s a pause, he looks over to see him with his hands on his head, resting on his elbows, staring at the paper. A few moments pass and he shakes his head, picking up his pencil and making a mark.

It’s probably nothing. Most likely, it is nothing.

There are fifteen minutes left of his test.

Then the door flies open.

“So,” Roman says, breezing in past a startled Virgil, “where are we ordering from tonight?”

“Roman—“

“There’s the new sushi place on the corner, there’s the Italian place—“

“ _Roman._ ”

“What? What’s more important than figuring out what we’re eating once you finally drag yourself away?” Roman puts his hands on his hips, still holding a takeout menu. “Why _are_ you still here anyway?”

“He’s definitely _not_ supervising my make-up test, that’s not it.”

Logan manages not to laugh at the way Roman startles, looking around to see Virgil resting his chin on his hand. He gives him a little wave. Roman waves back sheepishly.

“Didn’t see you there.”

“I figured. I mean, I get it.” He gestures to the menus. “Food is important.”

“I’ll, um…” Roman glances at Logan. “I’ll come back later.”

“You can stay,” Virgil pipes up, already focused on his exam again, “I don’t care.”

“Virgil,” Logan chides, “you’re supposed to be focusing.”

  
“Are you implying that I don’t have enough intelligence or concentration to do a test while two other people are having a conversation?” He raises his hand to his chest. “I am _offended._ ”

“He has a point, dear,” Roman says, only to blink innocently when Logan gives him a withering look. “What?”

“Plus, there’s only what, like, fifteen minutes left?” Virgil shrugs. “It’s not gonna make a huge difference.”

Roman plops himself happily on the end of the desk as Virgil turns back to his exam. Logan rolls his eyes when Roman immediately pushes a menu in front of his face.

“Roman.”

“I know, I know,” he says softly, “keep this on the low at work. But the workday’s _over,_ and it’s not like anyone’s going to be scandalized by the fact that we plan what we want for dinner.”

“…Italian is fine.”

Roman beams and takes the menu back, looking over it, one leg swinging. Logan refocuses on the computer, trying to get this last email sent off.

“What the _fuck_ is this?”

“Language,” Logan says automatically, glancing over at Virgil, even though he _did_ whisper it and is already apologizing, flipping back and forth between the pages of his exam and the formula booklet, his brows drawn.

Roman’s frowning at him. Then he glances at the clock on Logan’s computer.

“How much time does he have left?”

“I’m going, I’m going, I promise.”

“Thirteen minutes,” Logan replies, looking up to chide him for impatience, only to be taken aback by the worried look on Roman’s face. Roman glances at Virgil then back at Logan.

Okay. So it’s probably something.

Roman, Logan has observed, is incapable of being entirely still when he has something on his mind. He fiddles with the menu, picks up a pen from Logan’s desk and disassembles it, taps his fingers against his wrist. Nothing too obtrusive, until he starts humming. Logan’s not even sure he realizes he’s doing it. He lays a hand gently on Roman’s forearm and Roman stops midline. He sends him a look that says they’ll talk about whatever’s bothering him in a moment, but he should stop humming. Roman pouts. Logan stifles a sigh, knowing how much Roman hates an unfinished line.

Then Virgil finishes the line of the song, just as the timer goes off.

“How’s that for timing,” he mutters as he gets up to pass Logan the formula booklet and exam, “thank you.”

Logan nods.

“Guess that means you still have enough time to write the essay for me that’s due tomorrow, hmm?”

Virgil’s eyes widen as he looks at Roman. “ _Right,_ that’s _also_ due tomorrow. _Fun._ ”

“The rule is twenty-four hours for an extension,” Roman hums as he darts back to her bag.

“What? No no no, _mine’s_ done. I did it the day you assigned it.”

Logan can’t help the proud smile on his face, and judging by Roman’s expression, neither can he. Virgil produces his phone and starts typing.

“Ah,” he says, “that would explain the eight angry text messages I have.”

“It would?”

“I’m proofreading for some people,” Virgil explains, still typing, “study group and all that.”

Roman huffs, shaking his head, still smiling. Logan can’t help but echo the sentiment.

“I guarantee you none of them have looked at the Google Doc, at any rate,” he mutters, _still_ typing.

Logan frowns. “Google Doc?”

Roman turns to him with a smile. “Oh, haven’t you heard? It’s _brilliant._ ”

“We take notes on a collective Google Doc,” Virgil says, looking up at him, “makes it so if people have questions as the lesson goes we can answer them. Also means you’ve got access to the notes if you miss or can’t remember something. Crap ton of quotes, page numbers, and essay ideas too if you need those.”

Logan raises his eyebrows. “That’s an impressive idea. I may use that.”

Virgil frowns. “There’s one for your class too, did I…are you not on it?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Crap, totally thought I added you. Lemme do that real quick before I forget.”

As he sits down to pull out her laptop, Roman leans onto his elbow. “How many people are you proofreading for?”

“As of right now?” Virgil counts on his fingers. “Five?”

Logan glances down and realizes he hasn’t put his name on his exam. “Virgil? You forgot your name.”

“Of course I did,” he mutters, taking it and scribbling his name over the line. “God, I can’t wait until my generation is teachers.”

Logan raises an eyebrow and Roman gasps dramatically.

“Oh relax, that wasn’t an insult,” Virgil says as he passes it back, “I just have to explain that I’m messing stuff up because of actual human adult reasons, I can’t just say I chugged a shit ton of Dumb Bitch Juice today.”

Logan tries to chide him for his language again but Roman’s laughing too loud. So instead, he just says: “you’re not dumb, Virgil.”

“Jury’s out.”

Roman tilts his head. “You say like you’re not basically helping me teach our English class.”

“No, please,” Virgil sighs, “please let me be dumb. Let me rely on the obscene amount of study guides I’ve had to create for the last forever of my existence.”

“For you or for other people?”

“Yes.”

Roman frowns again.

It’s most likely something.

“Are you alright, Virgil?” Logan asks softly.

Virgil huffs. “What study guide is _that_ on?”

“Virgil?”

“What?” He glances at them and shrugs. “If it’s not on the study guide I don’t need to know it.”

Roman stands. “Virgil—“

“Come on, my schedule’s so full of essays, exams, speaking exams, and the sobering reminder of the fruitlessness of existence that I don’t have time for anything that isn’t on a study guide.”

“What study guide is existentialist depression on?”

“First off, it’s like _half_ of the reading material you assigned—“ Roman has the decency to look a little appeased— “and it’s the natural by-product of being in an environment where you’re being told to make big decisions that will affect the rest of your adult life while also being told you have to ask permission to go to the bathroom.”

The acid in his tone as he finishes speaking makes Roman falter and Logan frowns.

“You’ve made your point.”

“Sorry,” Virgil says softly, still fiddling with his laptop, “didn’t mean to sound so rude.”

It’s quite alright, he’s not incorrect, the schooling system is not kind to the transition to adulthood, let alone students with differing types of intelligence. But now is not the time for that tangent.

“Virgil,” Roman tries again, “what’s wrong?”

He stills, blinking at nothing. “…it’s been a long day,” he murmurs finally, his voice low.

It’s _definitely_ something.

“Talk to me,” Roman coaxes.

She shakes her head. “You guys don’t need to deal with my problems, that’s not your job.”

“On the contrary,” Logan corrects gently, “our job is to ensure the health and safety of our students and be a source of help. This—“ he gestures between them— “is indeed, our job.”

“Sit down,” Roman urges, “you’re shaking a little.”

Virgil listens. It is…unpleasant, Logan decides, to see Virgil like this. To see him so quiet and… _lost_ is jarring.

“How familiar are you guys with the PHSE stuff we do in homeroom?” He gestures to Logan. “I know you have a homeroom class…right?”

“I’m aware of it,” Logan says. Roman nods.

“We, uh, we did stuff about privilege today,” Virgil begins and Roman sits up a little more, “stuff about…what kinds of privilege there are and what forms they take.”

They nod politely. Logan had done the same class earlier that day, an interesting exercise that explored how media could affect perception alongside the more traditional aspects of privilege. It had sparked several intriguing discussions.

“We started off with this like…point system thing? You know what I’m talking about, right?”

“You are given 100 points and you may buy certain privileges,” Logan explains, “ranging from the ability to have a job regardless of your race, gender, or sexual orientation to having your identity represented in mainstream media.”

Roman raises an eyebrow. “Sounds fun.”

  
“I mean, it’s _interesting_ to see what people think of as privilege,” Virgil says, “especially when it comes to the media one.”

“Well, it must’ve been nice to _have_ that conversation, right?” Roman folds his arms. “You probably don’t have a chance to talk about it to that extent very often, if at all.”

Virgil looks at him. “You literally introduced the poetry unit by saying that Emily Dickinson is a lesbian and you were going to prove it over the next half-hour.”

“Your point?”

“ _And_ you taught ‘Frankenstein’ as a slash fic.”

“No, I said it could be _interpreted_ as a slash fic.”

“You say that like you don’t know _damn_ well what you were doing.”

“I,” Roman says, holding a hand to his chest, “always know what I’m doing.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “Doubt.jpeg.”

“Did you just say ‘dot-jay-peg’ out loud?”

“Yeah, I did, what’s good?”

Logan chuckles at their remarks, until Virgil’s smile slips and he simply stares at them. “Virgil?”

He shakes himself. “Sorry, sorry, just…” He waves at them. “Speaking of good representation.”

Roman furrows his brow. “Hmm?”

“You two,” Virgil says softly, “you’re…you’re some of the only role models I actually have. You’re…you’re good people and I, uh, I got lucky that you’re my teachers.”

“Thank you, Virgil,” Logan says, touched by the compliment. By the way Roman squeezes his hand, he can tell he is too. So much so that he doesn’t care to remind him they’re still at work.

“Be honest,” Roman says after a moment, lifting their hands, “how many bets did you just win?”

“I am _offended_ by that accusation.”

Roman just waits.

“Like…eight.”

He laughs. “And what did you win?”

“The assurance that I am _right_ and I will die on this hill.”

“I’ve never understood that expression,” Logan sighs, shaking his head.

“What, you’re telling me you don’t have any hills to die on?”

“No, Virgil, I do not have any ‘hills to die on.’”

  
“What a boring existence,” Virgil muses, “on your vast flat barren plains of compromise, acceptance, and accommodation.”

He spreads his arms wide and leans back a little. “Whereas I reign supreme over the lush, rolling highlands of stupid sh*t I have irrationally chosen to stake my entire identity on.”

Ah, there it is. Virgil’s…interesting talent of being able to censor himself. He explained it one time as ‘cutting off his air supply’ as he was about to say the vowel. It’s really just a glottal stop, but he does acknowledge the similarities.

“I appreciate your self-awareness,” Logan remarks dryly, “as well as your censorship.”

“You have several hills you’d die on,” Roman says, turning to face him, “like the best place to get pizza on a Saturday.”

“It’s Polly’s and you know it.”

The door flies open again, startling Virgil almost out of his chair.

“Oh, good,” Patton says, looking tense, “you’re both here.”

“… _hated_ that,” Virgil mutters, sitting up properly.

Patton’s head turns sharply, his entire body relaxing when he registers who it is. “Hey, kiddo, what’re you doing here so late?”

“I had a test to make up.” Patton must give him a look because he defends himself almost immediately. “We scheduled this last week, okay?”

“I’m not upset,” Patton says softly, shutting the door, “just concerned.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Right. Patton is Virgil’s homeroom teacher. By the way he glances at Roman and Logan, he’s probably here to talk to them about whatever is causing Virgil distress. Something that’s confirmed a few seconds later.

“Did you tell them?”

“Not everything.”

“Do you want to…?”

Virgil sighs, waving his hand. “No, you can do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll jump in if I need to.”

Patton pats his shoulder gently before turning to Roman and Logan. “What’ve we gotten to?”

“Virgil and Logan just finished explaining the point sheets.”

Logan opens his mouth to correct Roman but Virgil beats him.

“I am aware you guys have first names, it is after the school day, and there’s only four people in this room,” he deadpans, “it’s _fine._ Also you _definitely_ called him Roman earlier and didn’t give a sh*t.”

“I think you’d best nod and agree,” Roman murmurs, still hiding a smile.

Patton coughs. “Right. Then, uh, we did a moving exercise. You stand on one side of the room if you agree, the other if you don’t, somewhere in the middle if you’re…somewhere in the middle.”

“…what kind of statements did you use,” Roman asks warily.

“I have faced discrimination based on my race, based on my gender, based on my sexuality,” Patton lists. Roman winces. “I know, then…things like ‘people should be able to get a job regardless of gender, race…’”

“Please tell me most people agreed with that.”

Logan and Patton both nod. Roman exhales. Logan glances at Virgil. He’s not looking at any of them.

“Then…it was, um…” Patton looks over his shoulder. Virgil sighs.

“‘I have heard people use ‘gay’ as an insult,’ and ‘I have used ‘gay’ as an insult.’”

Roman bristles and Logan’s grip on his pen tightens. He did not expect this. They are in a fairly liberal area and their school is home to many progressive teachers _and_ students. And he likes to think _most_ of them are fairly intelligent and conscientious.

“That must’ve been difficult,” Roman says softly.

“No no no,” Virgil says, “that wasn’t the bad part.”

“That, um, that last one,” Patton says, “started a…conversation.”

“…what kind of ‘conversation?’”

Patton hesitates. Virgil looks from him to Roman to Logan. Sighs again.

“They defended the use of the f-slur and the d-slur to my face. Only they didn’t say ‘f-slur’ and ‘d-slur.’”

Roman stifles a noise. Logan has to take a deep breath.

“…who did, Virgil?”

“What, who actually said things or who silently agreed?” Virgil gestures between himself and Patton. “Because only two people in that room were like ‘hey maybe don’t do that’ and they’re both in this room too.”

_…it was the whole class?_

“Then I had to go take a two-hour math test,” Virgil continues, sitting back, “and _that_ was fun.”

“Oh, kiddo…” Logan hears Patton say distantly, blood still roaring in his ears, “you didn’t give yourself a break?”

Virgil shrugs. “I had a test to do.”

“I’m sure Mr. DeLuca would’ve let you—“

“Please,” Virgil says quietly, “it’s _fine._ Really.”

“Are you sure, kiddo?”

“Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine. Everything is so fine and good right now in the way that it’s happening.”

“I’m sorry, Virgil,” Logan says finally, drawing his attention. He looks at him with a sad smile.

“You didn’t do anything, did you?”

“Sympathy, not apology.”

“Habit, not accusation.”

Logan nods slowly, still trying to wrap his head around what’s happened. Using and _defending_ the use of homophobic slurs…

Unacceptable. Truly unacceptable behavior.

“ _And_ you had to take two tests today,” Roman mutters.

“Dude, in like…a month we’re about to hit mock week.”

“Virgil,” Patton says gently, “you’re allowed to be upset, you know that, right?”

“I’m mad as hell if that’s what you mean.”

“I know,” Patton says, “believe me, I am too.”

“As am I,” Roman growls. Logan’s still too angry to speak.

“And I hate to be the one to say this, but…” Patton rests his hand on his shoulder again, “sometimes you’ve got to pick your battles.”

“Well, I’m incredibly petty and full of rage, I’m picking all of them.”

It breaks the tension in the room, at least a little; Roman huffing a laugh, Patton smiling, Logan relaxing his fists.

“They’ll come around,” Patton says softly.

Virgil just looks at him. “…you actually believe that, don’t you?”

Logan’s fists clench again. Why does he sound so _hopeless?_

“Virgil, they’re your friends, they care about you.”

“Some of them have known me for upwards of fifteen years,” Virgil says, “and they still did that. They know, they just don’t care.”

“Don’t say that, kiddo.”

Virgil scoffs. “I’m not known as a crybaby for no reason, sir. There’s a reason they still scoff when I correct them when they pronounce my name wrong.”

…ah. That’s why he sounds so hopeless.

“It’s fine, in a few years I don’t have to see them ever again.”

“Virgil,” Roman says lowly, “how many of the people you’re proofreading for are in your form class?”

Virgil looks at him. “…you’re gonna tell me not to do it, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

Virgil swallows, picking up his phone and typing away. After a few moments, he sets it aside.

“I told them I can’t.”

  
“Good job,” Roman says quietly, “you go home and _rest,_ okay?”

Patton nods. “Is someone picking you up?”

“No,” Virgil says, getting up, “I’m walking home.”

Logan turns back to his desk, half-listening as Roman and Patton keep talking with Virgil about something. He’s still fuming. Hearing your peers speak about you and behave like that towards you is demoralizing, he knows, when it’s just _once._ But consistently? Over _more than a decade?_

He flips open Virgil’s exam to distract himself, only to realize that it’s not going to be nearly as successful as he’d hoped. There are angry scribblings-out on almost every question, the answer circled with a strange frantic energy. A little further in and there are drops on the page, soaking a few of the workings-out.

_Oh, Virgil…_

He glances back up to see Roman pat him on the shoulder and follow Patton outside. He gives him a look that says he’ll follow in a minute.

“Virgil?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to reschedule this test?”

“No,” Virgil says, his back mostly to him as he packs away, “I’m fine with it. Plus, then I’ll just have wasted your time.”

“…I’m not sure how much of it I’ll be able to read.”

“Really?” He turns around as Logan flips through the exam again. “Sorry, uh, you can just give me a low mark, that’s fine.”

_I’m not going to punish you for this, nor am I going to let you punish yourself,_ Logan wants to say, but he doesn’t quite get that far.

“Virgil—“ Logan looks up only to see Virgil’s…Virgil’s crying.

He looks away quickly, still trying to pack all his things away. Logan stands up, walking slowly over to the table, taking his exam and the box of tissues from his desk with him. He leans against the table and folds his hands in his lap, waiting.

Virgil’s hands are shaking so badly he can’t zip up his backpack. Logan carefully moves it out of the way so he doesn’t hurt herself, wincing a little when he almost falls when it disappears, grabbing hold of the edge of the desk.

“… _fuck._ ”

He gently places the tissue box in front of him before getting up and fetching a chair. Placing it behind him, he rests a hand on his shoulder and tries not to wince audibly when he all but collapses under it.

He leans against the table again as Virgil takes a tissue and blows his nose, still a little shocked at how quietly he’s crying. It’s the quietest he’s ever heard. If it weren’t for the little tremors he can see and the occasional sniffle, he’d wonder if he were crying at all.

Any observations as to why and how he’s learned to cry so quietly are quickly chased from his mind.

_‘Crybaby,’ he said they called him._

“Sorry,” he hears quietly, “I’m sure you’ve got be-better things to do than s-sit here.”

“On the contrary,” Logan says, “one of my top students is upset. I can think of nowhere better to be.”

Virgil huffs.

“You don’t believe me?”

He shakes her head.

“You are indeed one of my top students,” Logan says, “and I will die on this hill.”

He chuckles when Virgil buries his face in his hands. “Regret. Regret. Nope. I don’t like it.” He rubs at his face. Hard.

“Hey,” he calls gently, “don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself.”

He lowers his hands, worrying the tissue into a torn mess. He screws up his face, obviously trying not to cry even more.

“For whatever it’s worth,” Logan says softly, “you _are_ one of my top students. And I know I’m not the only one of your teachers who thinks that.”

He smiles kindly when Virgil looks up at him.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, only to frown when he flinches and looks away, “what’s that for?”

“Don’t—don’t _say_ that.”

“Why not, Virgil?” When he just shakes his head, Logan’s mouth runs dry. “…Virgil, when was the last time someone told you that they were proud of you?”

The silence is enough of an answer.

Logan leans forward and places a hand on his shoulder.

“Virgil, I need you to listen to me, okay?”

He nods.

“I _am_ proud of you. You are a truly impressive person. You are clever and you are resourceful and you are _kind,”_ he says firmly, “and I am honored to have you as one of my students.”

“Oh my god, you’re gonna make me cry.”

“That’s okay,” Logan reassures, “you’re allowed to cry, Virgil. That’s what the tissue box is for.”

He rubs his thumb soothingly against his shoulder as he grabs another tissue and buries his face in it. He keeps up the litany of reassurances as his breath hitches. And he’s so, so, _so angry that they did this._

Eventually, his arms fall onto the table and his head thunks down on top. Logan gives his shoulder a squeeze.

“Go home, Virgil,” he instructs softly, “go home and _rest._ ”

He nods, sitting up and blowing his nose one last time.

“…thank you.”

“If this happens again,” he says, making sure he’s looking at him, “you come and tell me, yes?”

He huffs a small laugh. “Don’t think I have much of a choice.”

“Yes, well…” Logan shrugs. “I worry.”

“Perish the thought,” Virgil mumbles.

“Hey,” Logan chides, bumping his shoulder lightly with his fist, “enough.”

“I yield, I yield.”

There are a few moments of silence before Logan takes a deep breath.

“What’re you going to do, Virgil?”

“Right now?” Logan nods. “Go home, eat something, and try not to make any really bad decisions.”

Logan frowns. “What do you mean?”

Virgil just looks at him.

Oh.

_Oh._

He gets up, goes to his desk, and finds the Sharpie he keeps for emergencies. He holds it out. Virgil takes it. Uncaps it and pulls up his sleeve. He watches as he draws one simple black butterfly.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

He gives his shoulder one last squeeze. “Now go home.”

When he’s shut the door behind him and he can’t hear his footsteps down the hall anymore, he picks his test up again. He flips through it.

Even with everything, even with the tear-stains on the pages, just from a quick glance over it, he can see that he’s performed well. Perhaps not up to his usual standard, but well.

Virgil is a perfectionist, however, which makes him think…

As was expected, Logan was not the only one who noticed something off during a test yesterday. Logan barely has to say a few sentences before Janus nods sharply.

When the morning break is over, he walks towards Patton’s classroom and knocks on the door.

“Could I borrow Virgil, please?”

Patton nods, glancing at Virgil in the corner and nodding toward the door.

Virgil gets up, swinging his backpack over his shoulder as he follows him down the hall. He opens the door to his own classroom and he ducks inside. He indicates for him to sit at the table and brings his chair over.

“I’d like to talk about your project,” he says smoothly, producing his draft and laying it on the table, “I have a few questions.”

“Uh, sure, sure, yeah, let me just—“ he reaches for his backpack— “get the electronic copy up, I’ve added a few things since that draft.”

Janus raises an eyebrow. “You handed this in…two days ago.”

Virgil glances up at him as her computer loads. “…yeah?”

He simply smiles. “Fair enough. Are you ready?”

“Let me just—“ he reaches for his bag again— “I’m not sure how well I’m going to be able to type right now and I don’t wanna miss anything.”

Janus waits patiently as he produces his workbook and a pen. He folds it over and scribbles something. Then he taps a few keys and looks up at him.

“Okay. Ready.”

“Marvelous.” Janus glances at the cover page. “To begin with, I’m concerned about the way you’ve described the project’s link to mathematics.”

“Okay,” he says, writing it down, “do you mind being a little more specific?”

“The links you’ve articulated do not play into any specific unit we’ve covered, nor have you used any formulas.”

His scribbling pauses and he glances up at him. He raises an eyebrow. He writes another word.

“What else?”

“You have a tendency to…assume a certain intelligence level in your reader.” He smirks when Virgil huffs. “You mustn’t skip steps. Show all your working.”

He doesn’t write anything this time. “Anything else?”

Janus taps the front cover. “I’m sure you’re aware that graphs and tables can be exceedingly helpful in understanding mathematical discussions. It might behoove you to include them.”

Virgil fiddles with his pen, then he pushes his laptop aside. “Why am I really here?”

Janus blinks. “Excuse me?”

Virgil reaches for the draft, carefully turning the pages.

“Unit link,” he says, pointing along a detailed formula list with the corresponding unit explained in a neat little paragraph.

“Detailed steps,” he continues as he taps the numbered steps one by one.

“And…” he turns a few more pages to reveal several graphs, “pictures.”

A smile crawls its way across Janus’ face as he sits back.

“I thought students were supposed to be the ones who got caught not reading the material.”

“Is this you admitting you _haven’t_ read all the material?”

“No comment.”

Janus chuckles, setting his draft aside. He _hasn’t_ actually looked at it properly yet, but he would be lying if he said he expected him to pick up on that _quite_ so quickly.

“That was awfully brave of you,” he remarks instead, folding his hands on the table, “to accuse a teacher of lying to you.”

Virgil shifts uncomfortably. “Well,” he mumbles, “after all the hours I put into that thing, I’d like to think I know what’s in it.”

Janus watches him for a moment. “Do you want to know why you’re here?”

He gives him a look. “By that tone of voice, I think you want me to say no.”

He doesn’t respond, simply waits.

“…what do you want?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is this an interrogation?”

“You tell me.”

In lieu of a verbal answer, he turns and places his test from yesterday on the table and refolds his hands. He watches Virgil’s eyes widen as he recognizes the test and dart back to him. He’s careful to keep his face unreadable.

“I was looking through your test this morning,” he begins, noting the way Virgil’s hands tense on the desk.

When he doesn’t continue, Virgil swallows and nods nervously.

“It’s excellent.”

His brows furrow a touch, still searching his face.

“Your grasp of the material is impressive,” Janus says, tilting his head, “and your performance under timed conditions even more so.”

He takes her test and moves it aside. “Especially considering the circumstances.”

“C-circumstances?”

The note of fear in his voice rises.

“It seems I am not the only one who received a tear-stain test yesterday,” he says.

Virgil closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “…who told you?”

“Mr. Mackenzie. Then Mr. Prince. Then Mr. Everheart.”

Virgil sighs, still looking at the table. “…look, I’m sorry if…if the test isn’t good enough but I don’t…I would prefer not to retake it.”

“I never asked you to retake it.”

“Do you want me to?”

“No, I do not want you to retake it.”

“Good, that’s—“ Virgil takes another deep breath— “that’s good.”

Janus furrows his brow a little. He’s still breathing a little heavily, bracing for something.

“Virgil, look at me.”

“Is that a request or an instruction?”

“…an instruction.”

His gaze flashes up, his hands twisting together under the table

“You’re not in trouble,” he says in a low voice, “that’s not why you’re here.”

“…it’s not?”

“No, Virgil.”

“You’re not…angry?”

“I’m furious,” he says quietly, “that your classmates thought that their behavior would be acceptable.”

He hides a smile when Virgil huffs, slumping forward and covering his face.

“Don’t _scare_ me like that,” he mumbles, “oh my _god._ ”

He throws her head back, his hands scrubbing over his face.

“The others are being treated to a…discussion with Mr. Mackenzie, Mr. Prince, and Mr. Everheart.” Janus taps his fingers. “There was no reason for you to be involved.”

Janus watches him with a small smile as he drops his hand into his lap and closes his computer.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” he asks softly, “that it happened? I would’ve let you reschedule the test. Or at least take a break before doing it,” he amends when Virgil shakes his head.

He waves his hand.

“Thank you for such an articulate description,” he says dryly. When Virgil doesn’t offer any more, he looks at him a little more. “…Virgil?”

“Surely it can’t surprise you that you’re intimidating.”

It doesn’t, but it doesn’t explain this.

_…ah._

“…do I scare you?”

“Yes.” His face must change because he waves his hand again. “Oh, don’t be like that, I’m scared of everything, it’s not a very high bar. It’s not your fault.”

“And yet you were still brave enough to point out I was lying.”

“Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity,” he says, “wouldn’t you agree?”

“…you’re not stupid, Virgil.”

He looks away, fidgeting with his hands, disbelief written plainly all over his face. Well, we can’t have that.

“I’m proud of you.”

He curses under his breath. “Did he tell you that too?”

“Perhaps.”

Virgil hides his face in his hands again.

“Virgil,” he calls softly, “you don’t have to be scared of me.”

“I _know_ that,” comes the mumble, “but I need to convince my _trash_ brain of that.”

“…I am, however,” he continues, “even more dismayed by the knowledge that you were crying during the test and no one noticed.”

“You get used to it.”

“…do _I_ get used to students crying or do _you_ get used to crying quietly?”

“The latter.”

“Oh, dear,” he murmurs mostly to himself, “what happened?”

“Mm,” he sighs, “you must be at least a Level 4 Friend to unlock my tragic backstory.”

It makes him laugh at any rate, but he recognizes it for the request to stop pushing that it is. Virgil smiles when he raises his hands in surrender.

“When you’re the only out kid in your grade, you get used to a lot of things,” he says instead.

…ah. That’s right. Virgil _is_ the only out kid in his grade. Not by choice.

He’s still not sure how they allowed _that_ offense to go unpunished to the extent that it did.

“I’m sorry.”

Virgil tilts his head. “For what?”

Janus gestures to himself. “I know a little about what it’s like to be the token minority.”

He sighs and sits back. “Well, it’s not like it’s anything new. They’ve been doing this since they learned what minorities _were._ ”

“This?”

It’s a reporter’s technique, a therapist’s technique, an interrogator’s technique. He’s sure Virgil knows it. And yet, he sighs again and answers.

“You know what one of the first things I had said to me was when I first came out?”

Janus quirks a brow.

“‘Do you know how popular gay porn is?’”

Janus’s eyes widen and his hand clenches into a fist. With forced patience, he moves the fist out of sight and raises his other hand to his chin. “ _Did_ they now?”

“I mean, this is also coming from people who think ‘I’d f*ck you’ is the highest compliment that can be paid.”

Both his hands ball into fists and his jaw clenches. He has half a mind to storm down and tell them off himself.

Instead, he grits his teeth and lifts his chin. “What else do they say to you?”

“About this?”

“In general.”

“Um—“ he leans back in his chair— “I was told to _not_ join the politics club because they talk about a lot of quote: ‘snowflake culture,’ and I would be too easily offended.”

_Or they are too afraid of differing opinions._

“I mean, the whole sensitive crybaby thing’s been a thing since I was like…three?”

_Oh, has it now?_

“And I mean, if it’s all just going to be people who come to a debate with their only source as a _Buzzfeed article_ then yeah, I’m good.”

Janus blinks. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

“We had a cover for a history lesson,” Virgil explains, “and we were told to write something about the Reagan Era. I asked if I could use it as an excuse to drag a dead President—“

_As well you should have._

_“_ And then,” Virgil continues, “someone said, um, that Reagan was in fact a _good_ President and I had…questions.”

“Understandably.”

“So I proposed a debate, gave us fifteen minutes to gather sources—“

“Only fifteen minutes?”

“I was aiming more towards ‘discussion,’ okay? Plus, I think even _that_ was generous.”

Janus raises an eyebrow. “Considering they only found _one source_ and it was Buzzfeed, I have to say I agree.”

“Right? That and I had to pause in the middle of it to explain the point of a protest.”

“Oh,” Janus mutters, resisting the urge to cover his face, “oh, dear.”

“Yeah…so. Maybe not the politics club.”

Janus sighs. The span of teenage ability will never cease to intrigue him. On one hand, you have…that. On the other, you have students like Virgil.

He tilts his head, still considering him. He’s staring at the floor, still fiddling with a pen. Wait…

“Oh, Virgil,” he murmurs, glancing around. He takes the tissue box from his desk and offers it to him.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking one.

“You really have been taught to silence yourself,” he says quietly as he blows his nose, “haven’t you?”

He shrugs.

“What do you need,” he asks gently, “and how can I help?”

A mixture between a laugh and a sob chokes out of his throat. “You sound like a school nurse.”

His lips twitch. “Please,” he says in a faux-pleasant voice, “rate your pain on the scale from one to ten.”

“Zero.”

He tilts his head and raises his eyebrows.

“Zero out of ten,” Virgil manages, “would not recommend.”

“...no, Virgil.”

“Fine. Pi.”

“Pi?”

“Low level but irrational and never-ending.”

Janus shakes his head slowly as he grins at him, still messing with the tissue. “Does that ever work?”

“Laughter is the brain’s blue-screen of death,” he says, looking away again.

“Janny!”

Janus winces, looking up to see Remus slamming the door open.

“Does _anyone_ knock in this place,” Virgil mutters.

“I would hope so,” Janus says, looking pointedly at Remus who doesn’t flinch.

“Come on, Janny—“

_“Mr.—_ “

“Dude,” Virgil interrupts, “I am aware that you guys have first names. I’m not gonna tell anyone if you don’t use the whole teacher thing all the time.”

“See?” Remus grins, closing the door. “It’s fine!”

“We have to be _professionals,_ believe it or not.”

“Virgil doesn’t mind,” Remus says, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “and it’s not like _he’s_ gonna start calling you Janny.”

“Nope, no, I am—that’s—nope.” Virgil shakes his head. “Bad. Cursed, actually. Mm-mm. No thank _you._ ”

Janus makes a face. “Quite…although you _did_ call me ‘dude.’”

“I have very specific pre-programmed dialogue options, okay?”

Remus rolls his eyes. “Alright, alright, enough. Why’re you here, V, you mess up some homework? Miss a deadline? You getting yelled at?”

“…something like that.”

“No,” Janus corrects, “it’s _not,_ Virgil, you know that.”

Remus frowns, sobering a little, walking around to peer at what’s on the table. “This your project?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks good.”

“Thanks.”

“It _is_ good,” Janus says, still watching Virgil, “even if I’ve only glanced over it.”

Virgil huffs. “Still can’t believe that happened.”

“Whoa, hey,” Remus says, startled when Virgil raises his head, seeing the evidence of his crying, “are you—hey, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“What the _fuck_ is an ‘okay?’”

Neither of them bothers to chide him for his language. Remus opens his arms. “Come here, kid, gimme a hug.”

“I’m gross, you don’t want that.”

“I’m grosser, I don’t care.”

Janus has to admit, Remus is right. He’s always covered in paint and charcoal and clay.

As he hugs him, Remus looks at Janus, wordlessly asking for an explanation. Janus explains softly, feeling vindicated as Remus’s face contorts in rage.

“They did _what?”_

“Ooh, can we not with the shouting?”

Remus lets Virgil go, letting him sit back down. “And they got _away_ with it?”

“They’re all currently in the middle of an…informative session,” Janus says, before realizing something, “but…perhaps…Virgil, I’m going to ask you a question.”

“That’s not ominous at all.”

“Had Mr. Mackenzie and Mr. Prince not asked you what was wrong, would you have told anyone this happened?”

Virgil’s mouth quirks. “You mean if I hid it better? No, probably not.”

“ _Why,_ ” Remus growls, “would you have let them get away with that?”

“Mr. Everheart came into the room in like, the middle of it. They would’ve found out anyway.”

“That’s not what was asked,” Janus chides softly, “why didn’t you tell anyone? Surely you know we would’ve done something.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “ _Wow,_ now why didn’t I think of _that, obviously_ that’s what I should’ve done.”

“I don’t see the need for sarcasm,” Janus rebukes gently.

“Even if it’s good sarcasm.”

Virgil closes his eyes and looks…so defeated. “I’ve told teachers before. They don’t help. Nothing changes. They’ll just do it where you guys can’t see. And then you’ll stop believing me.”

“What makes you so sure?” Virgil just looks at Janus and the patient hopelessness in his gaze makes his mouth run dry. “…how many?”

“At this point? Four. Or you’ll tell me to stop letting them get to me. Or that I’m too sensitive and I should get a thicker skin.” He shrugs. He _shrugs._ “In a few years, I won’t have to see them ever again.”

There’s a knock on the door.

“Finally,” Virgil mutters, looking over his shoulder, “ _someone_ knocked.”

Janus waves for them to come in. It’s Dr. Picani. He spots Virgil and makes his way over.

“Hey,” he says quietly, “how’s it going?”

“It’s going.”

“Everheart already give you the speech about picking your battles?”

“Yep. Said I’m incredibly petty and full of rage and I’m picking all of them.”

Picani snorts. “Good answer, kid.”

“…not that I’m particularly protesting, but why’re you here?”

“Mr. Prince called me,” Picani explains, sitting on one of the desks despite Janus’s withering look, “explained everything.”

“Ah,” Virgil sighs.

“What?”

“Why is this such a big deal?” Virgil looks around at them. “Not that I’m complaining and yeah, they messed up big time but like…this is a _lot._ ”

“Is it?”

“Compared to what normally happens, uh, yeah.”

“What normally happens?”

“Nothing. No, really. Nothing happens. I was surprised when Mr. Everheart said something during the class segment, even more surprised when he showed up in the science classroom after school.”

Picani makes a face. “That’s…not…good.”

“It’s high school, the bar was literally on the ground.” Virgil shrugs. “Some people just decided to bring a pickaxe.”

“We gotta be better about that,” Picani mutters.

“You’re damn right we do,” Remus huffs, “Janny’s all righteous fury too, even if he’s too prissy to say it.”

Picani snorts. Janus gives Remus another withering look.

“What? Don’t act like you’re not!”

As he scolds Remus, he can hear PIcani talking quietly to Virgil. Good. He needs someone on his side right now. He glances at the clock. There’s still quite a bit of the class period left.

“Do you have any work you could do?” He looks back at Picani and Virgil.

Virgil nods. “I have some drafts to do, I’ve got a paper to look at, and uh—“ he glances at his project— “yeah, I’ve got stuff.”

Janus pulls the draft of his project towards him and flips it open.

“I didn’t mean to—okay.”

Picani chuckles, taking Remus by the arm and half-dragging him out. They leave with a few last words of encouragement and the door shuts. Janus exhales, happy the classroom is quiet again.

A little too quiet, actually.

He looks up to see Virgil staring at nothing and is about to reach out, concerned, when—

“Is…is this what’s supposed to happen?”

Virgil looks up at him, nervous, unsure, and the tiniest bit hopeful.

“Yes,” he murmurs, “yes, Virgil, this is what’s supposed to happen.”

“Oh.”

He blinks a few times and goes back to typing on his computer. Janus smiles privately as his face takes on the familiar expression of concentration.

_Yes, this is what’s supposed to happen._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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